


to be okay

by likeafool



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Self Harm, Sexual Assault, Victim Blaming, i just wanted to post it somewhere, its a poem/story i wrote, its sad but it’s not as bad as the tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21682570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeafool/pseuds/likeafool
Summary: when people want me, i often think about letting them have me. maybe it would make me feel okay.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	to be okay

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is just a piece of poetry i wrote!! it was a way to deal with some stuff!! and i wanted to post it!! please leave kudos and comment!! i love it when you do!! thanks for reading!!

the hardest thing i’ve ever done is learn how to be okay.  
-  
lately, i have been dreaming of being twelve again. those nights, i wake up shaking. sometimes i don’t go back to sleep. sometimes i fall back asleep, on the couch instead of in my bed because she never sat there with me. 

whenever i think about her, about being with her, i feel dirty. i’ve used up all the hot water in house trying to scrub her off my skin. i’ve scratched until i bled, dry heaved into the toilet from crying too hard. and sometimes, i miss her. sometimes i feel like i could choke on the empty air around me. 

i told my best friend five months after we broke up. we sat across a wooden table, two books sitting between us. 

“did you ever say no?” 

“i tried” 

“did you fight back” 

“at first” 

“i feel like if you had really fought back, it wouldn’t have happened” 

i did say yes. i said yes and i have been living it it ever since.  
-  
i spent the summer with my parents. my father would take me to the houses he was working on. he taught me how to paint a house, how to curl my hands around a paintbrush properly. 

my mother taught me to garden, how to shove my hands in the dirt. i love watching the flowers bloom over time. i like knowing that i don’t kill everything that i touch. 

paint coated my hands, dripped all the way up my wrists. dirt was shoved under my nails, black circles outlining my pale hands. it was messy but it made everything feel right.  
-  
we fell in love softly, easily. making sure she stayed in love with me felt like dying, over and over and over again. after the first time, when i realized saying no didn’t work, i cried in her bathroom. when i got home, i would curl up in my closet because it was the only place i felt safe. 

i also stayed with her. 

eventually, when i would feel her pulling away from me, i knew that all i had to do was offer. i offered parted thighs, a promise of clever lips and i knew that she could keep loving me. at the time it felt worth it. 

now, i know it wasn’t.  
-  
i’ve told most of my friends now. had to offer an explanation for the flinches, the far away looks, the reason i don’t like people grabbing my wrists. 

some of them held me. some of them apologized. most of them understood. 

i told a friend that sometimes, when people hit on me, i consider just letting them sleep with me. it’s easier then saying no. 

a week later, he covered my body with his, crushed my hands under him while he held my chin, wanting me to look him in the eyes. i felt like my body was a coffin. his lips caressed my neck and i wondered if this is what being buried alive feels like. 

some days i wake up and can’t breathe. i wonder if i’ve given too many pieces of myself away, ripped bone and muscle and sinew out of my skin and gifted it away. there’s so many holes inside of me that i can no longer function.  
-  
while she taught me how to cut, she kissed my neck. when i was finally able to break skin, she told me that she loved me. i hadn’t heard her say it in months. 

i think that’s when i started associating pain with the feeling of being loved. 

i don’t think i ever grew out of that.  
-  
the only way i can keep people loving me is to offer myself on a silver platter. my lungs have been devoured, throat ripped out and broken, every piece of skin claimed. 

when people want to have me, i often think about letting them. maybe it would make me feel better. 

i sleep with the light on so i know she isn’t next to me. my harry potter audiobooks were thrown out, i can’t stand the taste of bubblegum, chicken scratch handwriting makes me want to vomit. 

but my hands are not idle. i have callouses from holding pencils, dirt under my nails and paint smeared across my skin. i have learned that they can be used for so much more then being held down. i have friends who hold my hands and watch horror movies and hold me when i shake. they believe me when i say that i tried to fight back. sometimes i still curl up in my closet but i light my favorite candle, read a book, anything except thinking about her.  
-  
i do not feel okay yet. but at least i’m learning.


End file.
